


What promises we keep.

by SyrupKhan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, knights of the round table - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Gay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Smut, calanthe is done, ciri is the only one with a brain, geralt wants none of this, jaskier is a twink and it shows, mlm, some of this may be odd lore wise but don't think about it and enjoy the gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26991772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyrupKhan/pseuds/SyrupKhan
Summary: Jaskier is a fresh face in the court, confident on the outside but scared and alone on the inside.Geralt is the best knight, and the one who's caught Jaskier's eye.Ciri is Geralt's protege, but she hates all of this court and it's nonsense.Yennefer is ready to move up in society, but she knows she'll have to fight tooth and claw for her promotion.I wanted to make a Camelot!AU because it's never been done before, so long as I can tell, at least in the Witcher fandom. No one is straight, and Ciri has the one braincell in this group of pining idiots.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Mistle (eventually), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. The first night.

It was a hellishly boring wedding. And Jaskier would know. This was his third. An awkward procession of bowing noblemen, dry and tasteless food, and a spouse who definitely hated him. All of those on their own? Fine. But together. Jask sighed and shifted his fist to be more comfortable in his cheek. It was going to be a long night. 

Beside him sat Calanthe, Queen of Camelot and supposed bloodiest woman on the continent. She certainly seemed vicious, but that Jaskier took more from her dark looks and comments that weren’t quite hidden under her breath, rather than martial skill. 

Still though, this was an important match, or so he kept getting told. Bright flashes, men cheering, women gossiping. The long hall was drafty, and the nearest hearth too far for him to get any warmth. Calanthe shifted and muttered something, a vague snatching about idiots and killing the pack of them. Then, she drained her goblet and stood. 

“MY ESTEEMED LORDS” She called, in a voice like thunder. It was enough to quiet the hall in one sweeped move. Deftly, her hand flew down and smacked Jaskier’s arm, indicating it was time he rose. Jask tried to as quickly as possible, succeeding in smacking his knee against the underside of the table and yelping. Calanthe brushed it off with a curse. 

“It is time for the most important part of the ceremony, the bedding!” Men and women began to roar their approval, and Jaskier felt his face darken. 

“Thank you for joining us, and we will see you in the morning!” Then Calanthe turned the full force of a wrathful glare on him. 

“Up, up you imbecile.” She snarled quietly, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him out of the room. Luckily, no one seemed to notice this particular incident. They stumbled down hallways, before turning into a relatively quiet part of the castle, at which point Calanthe seized Jaskier by the throat, pinning him to the wall and glaring at him like a wolf. 

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear you mournful idiot. You will never touch me, and I will never touch you. To the outside world we are a happy couple. If you choose to sleep with half the castle, I care not, so long as it never becomes public. Are we clear?” Jaskier forced himself to nod, well as he could with the hand wrapped around his neck. She sighed, dropping the hand and walking away with a muttered comment about his intelligence. 

Jask slid down the rough stone, a choked sob escaping him. How had he, Julian Alfred Pankratz of Londinium, come to this? A broken man, sobbing on the floor of a castle a world away from the loud and rough taverns of his youth. No. He would not break like this. Jaskier forced himself up, hands pushing against the wall. Then, he took a deep breath. Then another. And then Jask took a shaky step forwards. He was moving. 

Camelot was a large and twisting castle, and Jaskier regretted not taking the chance before the wedding to explore, rather than locking himself in his room and refusing to eat in some childish protest. Like that would’ve changed anything. But now, he could appreciate the true nightmarish maze of the castle. Passages doubled back and layered over each other, and once, Jaskier tripped, stumbling through a tapestry and onto a hidden staircase. 

Finally though, he found what he was looking for. The library. Camelot’s library was supposedly this vast, ancient collection on tomes from all eras about all things. But, Jaskier was sorely disappointed to find it was really a small alcove containing a few dusty books, and the room was small enough that he couldn’t even stand up properly. But there was one redeeming quality. In the corner, tucked away and covered in dust, was a lute. Jask strode over to it, or tried to before knocking his head on the ceiling and hissing like a cat. But, he found the lute, and picked it up. 

“Now who would be so daft as to leave an instrument like this just lying in some corner.” Tentatively, he gave it a strum. It was horribly out of tune, so Jaskier began to correct, humming along to try and get the notes right. Eventually, it sounded half decent, though nothing close to what he would want. Regardless, he gave it a test strum, nodded, and began to sing. 

High over the hills of fair Brittannia,  
Sits the walls of Camelottttt,  
Broken is she, who guards this place  
And never to be freeeee.  
She left her mother and her father  
To take up the sword for valorrrrr.  
But now she sits cold and aloneeeeee  
With naught but blood for glamorrrrrr. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier whirled around, and behind him was an older woman in a loose blue robe. Her lips were pulled into a tight line, the only thing stricter about her appearance was the bun she kept her hair in. He gaped. 

“I- It was- I’m sorry who are you?” The woman waved her hand, annoyance crossing her face. “I.” She declared, gathering herself up and somehow becoming more imposing. “Am Tissia of Verdun. And you, pompous whoever-you-are, are causing quiet a bit of racket. Now, I recommend you be silent before someone silences you.” Jaskier’s head slumped down. Somehow, he felt a great shame creep over him. 

“I- I apologize. I’ll be going now.” He dropped the lute and wandered away, reaching to doorframe before Tissia sighed. 

“Wait.” Jaskier turned his head, and found her offering the lute. “Take the damn instrument. Just because you can’t make racket now doesn’t mean you can’t keep the damn thing. Lord knows no one else is using it.” Jask felt a smile coming on. He gingerly took it. “Thank you! I’m Jaskier, well, Julian Alfre-” Tissia held up a bony hand. “Take the lute and go. Before I change my mind.” Jask gave a giddy little nod, and was practically skipping down the hallway, not even noticing the smile coming over the mage.


	2. The Breaking of Dolorous Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes wild and puts the training he's given to the test.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flow might be a bit choppy, I wrote most of this in 20 minutes.

The knight looked up over the gloomy castle and swore.  _ Damn fae and their damn prophecies.  _ He corrected himself, this was a fae he had a personal connection to, which made this all the more annoying. The warrior had arrived in town not three hours earlier, to find it gloomy, with a scattering of peasants that all seemed to posses some sort of doomed expression. He hadn’t really cared, right up until he’d entered the tavern. It had been a standard sort of affair, low, smoky, and with a cast of shady characters he’d rather not deal with. So, the sir had sat down in the corner, and had kept to himself. And then two of the seedier characters had decided to get handsy with one of the barmaids, to which he, in his noble brilliance, had told them to fuckoff, which they hadn’t taken kindly, and two minutes later they’d been bleeding out. The girl had fled, and against his better judgement the knight’d gone after her. 

Upon entering the alley, he’d found not a bloodsoaked and weeping girl, but a ethereal maid floating an inch off the ground. She’d smiled at him.    
  


“Knight of Triss’ court.” She said, in a lilting, airy voice. The man swore. “This is her doing.” The maid gave him an apologetic smile. “It is indeed. But you must understand, she did it with love. There is a curse on this land, child of the fae.”    
  
He swore. “I’m not interested. I left her court, remember?” The girl sighed. “Childish as that was, that’s not the point. That curse is poisoning everything, and you may be the only thing able to stop it.” The man thought for a second. “Fuck me, you don’t mean the castle, do you?”    
  
Indeed, the warrior had seen the castle upon entering the town, but brushed off its decrepit looks and imposing aura as it being abandoned. He hadn’t given it much thought. But now, the puzzle pieces began to fall in. “Let me guess, it’s about to plunge the land into darkness and I have the ability to stop that.” The maid pursed her lips. “That is not the way I’d phrase it, but yes, that is a succinct way to describe the situation. But you will not fight alone.” She gave a wave of her hand, and there was a metallic CLUNK as several round iron shields fell at the knight’s feet.    
  
“And what are these?” He asked, picking one up gingerly. “Those.” She said, lifting one up. “Will multiply your strength tenfold for each you use. I know you are a great warrior. Now prove it.” He was still mulling it over, so she gave another, more mysterious smile. “And, should you free the castle from it’s twenty knightly defenders  _ and  _ Lord Brandon, your name shall be revealed to you, as well as your status.” That caught the knight’s attention.    
  
“Wait. Wait wait wait.” But the maiden in the air was fading away. “My name? Twenty defenders?” But she was gone. He swore again. Not even a week from his foster mother, Triss, Lady of the Lake’s court, and he was already embroiled in a pile of shit. He sighed, gathered all the shields, and went to find his horse.

Now he stood looking up at this damnable castle with it’s damnable curse. He just wanted to pass through, move on. Instead, he stood with a shield strapped to his left arm, arming sword drawn in his right.

The first of the defenders came at him, wielding an axe and screaming a wordless battlecry. His swing was too heavy though, and the knight sidestepped, bringing his sword down with more strength than he expected, and he sheared the axehead clean off. 

_ Shit, _ he thought to himself,  _ that’s new.  _ Barely thinking, he performed a half turn and slit the knight’s throat. Then, he picked up the shaft of wood and threw it clean at the next defender. He wasn’t expecting that, and stumbled back, allowing the knight to move inside his guard and shove him with his shield. The shield cracked, but the other knight was off balance enough for the white haired man to shove his sword in his opponent’s eye. He didn’t even bother with the mace, but took the time to drop his broken shield and pick up a second one. It came just in time, as the third defender came at him with a sword. The nameless warrior jerked the shield up in time, and it caught, then he used his own sword and drove it through the man’s chest, breaking off the blade to keep it stuck in, and picked up the other combatant’s weapon. His next opponent tried to pry his shield away from his torso with his spear and open his guard, but the fae champion simply slammed the pommel of his new sword into the shaft. It broke, and he used the momentum to drive the blade into his opponent’s head, then drove his foot into his chest, using the force to pull the sword out of his head. From there, most of these fighters were easy enough to push through. 

Afterwards, he sat on the wall, panting. Behind him, a snort rang out. He looked over, finding Roach standing there, wickering softly. “You’re right, damn it” He got up, cursing, and went back to the horse. After dumping the last shield off of his arm and taking a long drink from the waterskin, he wiped his mouth and kept moving. 

Upon crossing the bridge littered with corpses, he found the doors flung open, and all heraldry taken down. The knight made no comment, but instead of heading to the main hall, he decided to head downwards. Nothing influenced his decision, or so he thought. First, he came to a doorway with two guards, who bowed to him and opened the door. Next, a dank dungeon with many knights cramped together. It was easy enough to free them, and they took the time to thank him before harrying off. Next though, he found a winding hall. Following it down, it was a good ten minutes before he found the exit, and with it, a great surprise. 

It was an underground lake, water deep but not terribly so, and a single unsubmerged path, leading to a perfectly circular island. The knight, thoroughly weirded out, walked forwards, padding along the path to the island. Upon arriving, he found a coffin, with a detailed carving of a tall figure wielding a glowing sword. Then, with trembling hands, he pushed the seal of the coffin over, to find…

Nothing. The coffin was empty. Confused, he turned to the seal, and found writing on the underside, which had been flipped over in the effort. The writing declared, in French:    
  
_ He who opens this shall be named Geralt of Reims  _

_ Prince of Frankia  _

It took the knight, or Geralt, a second to process that. But the first thought he had? “What the fuck-” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently these chapters are going to be kind of short, but my current plan is to get everyone in the court of Camelot, and then switch to a more episodic format, where we have a monster of the week and one or two of the knights (plus Yennefer or Jaskier) taking it on, then some interpersonal stuff. Eventually, the story'll come to a head, and the classic end stuff will occur.


	3. Ciri's Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri does some training and also a agility course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put this together in an hour so the pacing might be a little slapdash.

Ciri spun, parrying the first blow and smoothly avoiding the second. As her third opponent came at her, she dodged to the right, lashing out with a gleaming silver blade that caught him in the neck. He stumbled, and she grinned, pressing her advantage and pirouetting into the second man, her sword flashing out and connecting with his stomach. With a “woof” he fell flat on his ass, and she turned to the last man. He raised his sword, and Ciri settled into a viper stance, sword held horizontally next to her head, blade forwards and pointed at him. Then she exploded forwards, twisting inside his guard and pressing the blade to his throat. They hung there for a second, and he began to laugh. 

Ciri stepped back, and helped the man on the ground up. The third rubbed his neck, and she shook her head. “Gotta keep that guard up Sam, or someone more skilled than me will use it as a way to actually open your neck.” He grumbled, but moved on. She grasped the second man’s forearm. “Arthur, you have to keep moving, or any peasant with a cudgel could open you up with a pitchfork.” And finally, she turned to the last man. “Percy, that was much better than last time.” He grinned. “Thanks, I took your advice and stood my ground. I had a better chance there than with attempting to keep up with you.” And he left. Ciri found herself standing alone in the middle of the training yard. Some archers trained in the background, but none she was willing to talk to. So, Ciri put her sword back on the rack and decided to run the walls again. 

The walls were a series of old, disused fortifications that the castle had slowly abandoned after the work of her adopted great-great-grandfather. So, they had become an agility course. If you could run the whole thing, it was seen as a great feat. She had managed to do that thrice, but mostly it was so she could think and clear her head. Ciri took a breath, and started across them. 

Her feet padded, moving as fast as her thoughts. Two nights ago, her adopted grandmother, Calanthe, had married some noble named Jaskier. She almost felt sorry for him, dealing with her famously brutal guardian. The first turn, one Ciri was familiar with. She kicked off the wall, sailing through the air for a second before landing on another, more slippery section. She stumbled, but kept moving. Jaskier was just his nickname, but he didn’t look like a Julian to her. Of course, she hadn’t had time to talk to him yet. Second turn. Ciri grabbed the ledge and vaulted, landing with a roll and sliding halfway down the wall before bunching up and clearing a small grassy section between two of the larger walls. Though, she hadn’t seen him much since the welcome feast, the only time other than the wedding, and that was odd enough. Most men would kill to have access to Calanthe and Camlin like that, but he just seemed miserable. Third turn. She grabbed one of three handholds, the safest, and swung herself onto a large, wooden and rotting part of the defenses. Granted, that could be because he came from Londinium. People there seemed so miserable. Her friend Sabrina had said that was because the water there made you numb and depressed, so you could cope with your terrible surroundings. Ciri corrected herself. Sabrina wasn’t her friend, she was Ciri’s handmaid and tutor, because Calanthe valued things with dual purpose. Finally, panting and weary, Ciri arrived at the tower, the hardest part of the course. 

Taking a breath, Ciri grabbed the first handhold. The Tower was gruelling, and where most people failed. Granted, the course she took was riskier than what most people did, but it expended less energy. So, she began to climb. As she moved, her thoughts drifted from the newcomer and Sabrina to Mistle. Tall, confident Mistle. With a supple form and laugh like a tinkling stream- Ciri swore. She almost lost her grip and went tumbling down. She shook herself, Mistle would have to wait. Besides, this was the trickiest part, nicknamed Deadman’s Leap. That, of course, had been named for the man who had fallen and broken his neck on his run. Unfortunately, that had been all the excuse Calanthe needed to ban everyone from the Course, but that was a halfhearted ban to appease the family. And no one even respected it. Regardless, Ciri would have to be careful. Skilled as she was, this part still posed a problem. So she bunched her legs, breathed deeply, and lept. 

For a good five seconds, she hung in the air. Then, blessedly, she caught onto the next handhold, and exhaled. She pulled herself up, into a small alcove where the bricks had rotted and fallen out. Ciri sat, just admiring the view, and the fact that she had crossed Deadman’s Leap. It was later in the day, approaching sundown, and the area around Camlin was quiet, but not unexpectedly so. On one side of the castle, a bent river snaked past, weaving back and forth before shearing through some hills. On another, a dense, almost black forest stood, trees stabbing defiantly into the sky. A third side was a series of crisscrossing roads wandering back and forth across villages. Finally, to the west, it was clear, flat fields, until distantly, stood the ocean. Despite being so close, Ciri had never been, and had no real desire. It was dangerous, with tides that could suck a man under and whisk him out to sea without so much as a scream. But the ocean wasn’t her problem. So, she dusted her lap off, and then swung out, using her momentum to hook her foot on the next handhold, and she was moving again. Now though, Ciri’s thoughts were of mermaids, and distant lands. What was beyond Camlin, and Brittania in general? She only vaguely knew. Ciri stretched her body, hanging dangerously over the void and just grasping the next handhold. She pulled across. Of course, there was some information about the nearest lands, like Frankia, and Eire. But beyond that? She had read something once about a Germania, and even a few pieces about the mother city, Rome. Ciri had even heard of the mythical city of Constantinople, where the streets were gold and you could buy anything. Now, she came to Slipbrick run, where she moved more quickly than normal, lest she rest for too long and one of the bricks came loose, which would send her tumbling, and into a fall much worse than Deadman’s Leap. But she got over it. They’d had a trader from Constantinople once, when Ciri was eight. She had asked him about the gold streets, to which he’d snorted and said that the streets were more like compressed horse shit than gold. Finally though, she grabbed the lip of the top of the tower, and dragged herself in. Ciri flopped down, just breathing and letting herself relax. Then, finally, Cirilla dragged herself up to look around. Camlin was peaceful, tranquil. Men bustled about, women yelled, and guards gossiped and jibed. She liked it here, her home. Then Ciri frowned. There was a spot on the horizon, moving closer. She squinted, having good eyesight but not good enough eyesight for this. Then it finally hit her what it was. Approaching on the horizon, was a rider. 

A thrill went through Ciri’s heart. Someone new was coming to Camelot! The rational part of her insisted it was just one of Calanthe’s riders, but something told her this was a special rider. So, she decided to take the fast but very risky way down, on the rotted old steps. Ciri flew down them, ignoring the breaking wood under her and just focusing on getting down. She burst out of the bottom of the Tower, repeating her route across the Course and leaping up onto the wall. Ciri dashed over to the man guarding the gate, who she recognised as Big Hal. She just managed to skid to a stop. “Who is it, Hal?” He turned to her, gleam in his eye. “Ah, no one we know, princess.” She scowled, excitement slightly dampened by the use of princess, a title she hated. “They going to let him in?” He shrugged. “Dunno, depends on how he acts at the gates I suppose.” And Ciri and Hal turned to watch the approaching figure. 

It was a good ten minutes before he finally came up to the gates, and another guard, Yellow Roddy, called down to him. “Ho there sir, who may you be?” It took a minute for the knight to respond. Finally, his reply came up, in a gruff, curt voice. “Syr Geralt of Reims, knight of Frankia.” 


	4. Smoke and Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer disposes of a court rival.

Yenn stood, pushing back her hair. They had all been hastily called into the main hall, apparently for some important matter. It didn’t mean shit to her, but if it gave her a chance to speak with the Queen…  _ Stop it Yenn, you’re getting ahead of yourself.  _ First, Calanthe entered, followed by a procession of sycophants and guards. She sat, and then gestured for the doors to be open, looking thoroughly done with all of this. During the commotion of the doors being opened, Yenn used the opportunity to slip close to Sabrina, who was standing near, but not close to the Queen. Her eyes were locked on the door, so Yenn took the chance and slipped the bottle into her pocket. Then, she stepped back, fingering the amulet and waiting for the right moment. Footsteps made her look up, and Yennefer found a tall, white haired knight walking down the carpet towards Calanthe, looking like he was marching to battle. He bowed to the queen, who waved respectfully. 

“Yes yes, I imagine you want something?” The whole court breathed in. The knight’s response was critical, and he took a moment. “Your majesty, my name is Syr Geralt of Reims.” The queen looked like this was the last place she wanted to be. “I come on behalf-” But Yenn tuned him out, instead focusing on the amulet. She ran her hand over its surface, and then began to whisper in sylvan. The words felt slippery and cagey, like they were trying to mangle themselves, and by proxy, her. But it worked, and she tossed the amulet onto the ground. It landed with a quiet clink, but no one noticed, they were so enraptured by the exchange between this Geralt, as he had introduced himself, and Calanthe. Then, she uttered the last word, and watched as a smoky tendril curled from the amulet, and into Sabrina’s pocket. Everything was quiet, the queen considering Geralt’s last answer, and then the jar exploded. 

A large black figure escaped, its lower torso dissolving into mist, and it shrieked. Everyone looked up in shock, and it took a presumptive strike at Calanthe. Of course, Yennefer didn’t want to kill the queen, but she needed the surprise. What she hadn’t expected was the damned knight. He burst forwards, sword drawn, and he gave a mighty swing at the smoky form, which passed through its arm clean. But it did give Geralt the form’s attention, and it turned its baleful black eyes on him. Yenn swore. This was not going according to plan. So, she drew a breath, and then summoned some magic, concentrating on the earth, and dragging power from there. Once it was gathered inside her, she opened her eyes, and used it to form a simple binding spell. Yenn yelled out the command word, and it froze, giving Geralt time to move, and it shook the guards from their stupor, and they began to try and usher Calanthe out of the hall. Instead of meekly leaving with them, she shook them off, and drew her sword. Yelling, the queen of Camlin joined the battle. 

_ The hell?  _ Yenn thought to herself, as the queen drove at the monster. But instead of her sword passing through like Geralt’s had, it sheared the arm off, and Yennefer was so shocked, the smoke demon used the opportunity to break free of her spell. Calanthe wasted no time, and drove the demon back, hacking various portions of it off, finally ending with a spin, and the head being severed from the body. There was silence, then a burst of applause. Calanthe turned to Geralt. “As you can see, I can handle myself, thanks to the blade Excalibur. But, if you wish to join my court, I am hosting a tournament next week to find a new champion.” Geralt nodded. “That will do just fine.” And he bowed, asking for leave. She nodded, and he turned to go. Calanthe, meanwhile, turned her wrath upon the crowd. “Now where did that infernal spirit come from?” And Yenn saw her chance, she stepped forwards, straightening her posture. “I can tell you your highness.” Yennefer leveled a single finger at Sabrina. “She released it when you were speaking to the knight!” And that was all Calanthe needed. She ordered that two of her guards seize the tutor, despite her profused and vigorous insistence she was innocent, and put her on trial later. Meanwhile the queen turned to Yennefer. “As thanks for aiding me in the struggle, I shall grant you a boon. Name a favour, and if it is in my power, and within reason, I shall give it to you” Yenn’s heart jumped. It was that easy? “I would like,” She paused, as if considering. “To be your granddaughter’s tutor. If Sabrina was willing to kill the queen, who knows what ideas she’s put in her head.” Calanthe’s eyebrows twitched, and for a terrible second, Yennefer thought she’d been found out. But instead, the queen gave a smile that came out more like a grimace. “Very well, you will begin in the morning.” And, gold cloak swishing, Calanthe left without another word. 

Yenn breathed a sigh of relief. How had that worked? But, she assumed the position was temporary, seeing as the queen hadn’t even bothered to learn her name. Still, it was all she needed to press forwards with her plan. As a lower ranking mage, there were few ways she could push ahead. But getting rid of a skilled rival by implicating her in a court plot? That was the cleanest. _Now all I need to do is get close to that new consort of hers, and everything will fall into place._

The next day, Yennefer stood before the door of the princess’ chambers, and she knocked primly. “Enter” came the gloomy reply, and Yenn turned the handle, pushing into the room. As she entered, Yennefer took note of her surroundings. The room was messy, books open and scattered, and she found the princess sitting on the ledge, staring boredly into the yard. Even though she wasn’t looking at her, Yennefer still curtsied to Cirilla. “Greetings, princess, I am Yennefer of Vich-” the princess’ hand shot up. “I don’t care. I know what you did.” Yenn froze, and Ciri turned on the ledge, green eyes fixed on the magician. There seemed to be some conflict in there, but she let it go. “You tried to sneak that book of poetry in here!” Yennefer’s brain tried to adapt. Then, she noted a book of poems in her arms, buried at the bottom of the pile of books. She gave a shaky laugh. “Ah- yes. I thought we could learn about some culture.” Ciri giggled. “That won’t be necessary. See, you only teach me for an hour every day, and then we go about our separate lives. But, sit on the bed, what are you going to teach me?” Yennefer took a deep breath. Position of tutor was not as influential as she thought. But she could work with what she had. And what did she have? A malleable girl, and an hour with the one person who might have the queen’s ear. “We’ll start with the teachings of Virgil and Livy…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is shorter than usual, but I wanted to include Yennefer's POV because she is a central character in the series.


	5. A broken assumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Ciri bond over being an mlm and wlw who hate politics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me I don't know anything about banquets or dancing or most of this chapter it was a real shot in the dark.

Jaskier straightened his jacket, admiring the sheen of the red and gold in the mirror. Combined with functional and non-descript pants. He reached up, adjusting the ascot he had tied around his neck. Not half bad for a sad noble. Jask ran a hand through his hair, and then hummed a few notes. He probably wouldn’t get the chance to sing, but being ready wouldn’t hurt anyone. Then, he turned to the lute lying on the bed, like a scorned lover. Despite himself, Jaskier spoke to the thing. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s only a few hours.” Then, he left, not giving the lute time for an imagined response.    
  
It was a short walk to the main hall. Granted, Jaskier had been here long enough and had done nothing but explore, so he took a short path through what he assumed used to be a servants passage, and stepped out onto a side hall, taking the time to straighten his jacket and smooth his hair. Then, he cut left, rounding the corner onto the main thoroughfare. It was crowded, Camelot stuffed to the brim with various major and minor nobles, all here for tomorrow’s tournament. Which meant Jaskier had to make an appearance. A fate worse than death, to him, but maybe he could find a cute server and play for them in his private quarters, along with… other things. Regardless, he joined the throng streaming into the hall. 

The hall itself had been divided into several sections, each of the tables a different colour. The warmer your colour? The higher the rank of the table. Right up to the Queen’s table, coloured gold. He passed two courtiers, whispering about how much of a genius Calanthe was for coming up with the colour scheme. Jaskier snorted, trying to imagine Calanthe designing any of this. He made his way up to the main table, seat next to Calanthe open and very unwelcoming. Jaskier sat, having vivid flashbacks to his wedding night. This, however, was a happier night, as he wasn’t likely to be forced to do anything. To his left, Calanthe sat, fist dug into her cheek and expression of murder painted across her face. Jask shivered, remembering the last time he’d seen that expression. But, the ire wasn’t directed at him. On his other side, sat princess Cirilla. She looked about as uncomfortable as one could be in a dress, constantly shifting and scratching. Jaskier, not even drunk yet, quipped at her. “Is there a snake in your dress fair Cirilla?” Ciri froze, then turned to him, confusion evident in her eyes. “Excuse me?” Part of Jask’s confidence died, but he soldiered through. “It- it seems like something is slithering around, scales running up and down your skin judging by how you’re moving.” For a solid half-minute, Jaskier thought he’d insulted her, but then Ciri snorted. Her hand flew up to her mouth, eyes wide in shock. Thankfully, Calanthe was still staring at the party with murder in her eyes. So, he gave the princess a smirk, downed a cup of wine, and turned to her fully in the chair. “So. Tell me the most interesting piece of gossip you know about this court.” Ciri flexed an eyebrow, but turned in her chair, eyes scanning the tables, then pointing. “See that man at one of the red table? The fat one who’s- erm, well, I think you can see what he’s doing.” Indeed, Jask knew who she was talking about, he was a rather large man, who had pulled a serving woman into his lap, and was nuzzling her neck while someone who Jaskier assumed was his wife sat beside him, trying not to die of embarrassment. “He.” Ciri said, sitting straighter, “Is currently sleeping with…” It took the princess a minute to find them, so Jask took the chance to cut in “With half the castle I assume.” Ciri laughed, not the awkward snort of before, but a high, clear laugh. She shook her head. “No, she’s at one of the orange tables, I just can’t find her. She does look like a goose though.” Cirilla said, looking as if she’d just dispensed some sort of secret of the universe. Jaskier laughed. “And do these goose woman and fat adulterer have names?” She nodded, then thought. “Lady… Millbank and Lord… oh what was it.” Jask saw the opportunity. “Lord Butterball?” 

Ciri laughed so hard had she put her head on the table. “Oh- oh god. I can’t remember so that must be it.” Jaskier chuckled. “Now. Let’s play a tavern game.” Ciri looked over at him, face reddening. “I’m not removing any articles of clothing.” Jaskier chuckled. “No, that’s not the game. I suspect we’re not attracted to each other regardless. But, the game is, I point to a person, and you have to try and figure out what they’re thinking about right now.” Ciri nodded. “Very well, what is, baldy at an orange table three’s story.” Jaskier paused, eyes sweeping the crowd before he found who she was talking about. “Hmmm. He’s from Northumbria. Here because his cousin’s betrothed’s nephew is competing, and, he also is going to try and take a shot at…” He scanned the tables, before finding a suitable match at one of the blue tables. “The lady in the light blue frilly dress at that table.” Ciri chuckled, then Jaskier turned to someone at one of the red tables, a woman in frilly pink. “What’s her reason for being here?” Ciri paused. “She’s here to secretly enter the tournament and attempt to join my grandmother’s knights.” That got a giggle out of Jask, and the princess scrunched up her nose, before pointing to someone at the lowest table, a green. “What about him? White hair, big sword on his back.” Jaskier found him, and his mouth opened in shock. He was a specimen of a man, tall, with muscles that pushed against the fabric of his suit. He continued to gape until Cirilla poked him in the arm. “Hello? Anyone home?” Jask shook himself. “Er- sorry, he is-” Calanthe cut in. “He is here to participate in the tournament and nothing more. Now, please stop bothering the guests. People are starting to whisper.” Jaskier felt his face flush, and Ciri looked down at her food. Then, people began to clear tables away, and bards struck up a jaunty tune. He longed to join them, but instead, he decided on a better idea. Turning to the princess, he asked “Would you like to dance?” She didn’t register for a moment, but then blinked. “What?” But Jaskier grabbed her wrist. “Let’s go dance, it’ll be fun!” Ciri looked confused, but she went with it, and Jask led her to the dance floor. 

The tune was one he knew. Old memories of smoke stained rooms, laughing, and spinning to the music. So, he set the pace. Ciri was the kind who only knew ballroom dances, but she managed to drunkenly stumble along before finding her rhythm. Jaskier spun her, and as he brought her in, she managed to get a question in. “So, where do you go exactly?” Jask narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” She giggled. “Well, you’re never at the small dinners, and this is one of three banquets you’ve graced us with your presence, so I have to assume you go somewhere.” His face flushed. “Right. Being honest, I mostly just wander, looking for anything interesting.” Ciri arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen some of the men you sneak into that room of yours. Must be some fancy exploring.” They both locked eyes. Staring. Then, Jaskier giggled, and they both lost it. Jask braced his hands on his knees while Ciri doubled over. It took them forever to recover. Finally, the princess wiped her eyes, and he sucked in a breath. Then, she bowed to him, and he bowed to her. Without a word, they both knew what the other was going to do. Ciri was off to find a bladed implement and fight someone, and Jaskier was going to try and get the white-haired knight to sleep with him. Jask took a wine goblet off of someone’s table, ignoring their complaints, draining it, and trailblazing to the muscular figure in the corner. 


	6. Death has a certain majesty to it, no?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt saves Jaskier's ass and then bonds with Ciri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you didn't notice with chapter two, my combat writing is based off of nothing but how I assume this works.

Geralt’s time at the party was one of the finer points of his stay in this castle of nightmares. At least here, you could get a proper drink. Then he had to arrive. He being the consort to Calanthe, who Geralt had seen around the castle a few times. “This seat taken?” Without giving him time to respond, the other man sat down next to Geralt. “So, what brings you here?” Geralt grabbed his flagon, taking a long draft. “I want to hit things, and this seemed the best way to do it.” The other man looked confused, but shook himself. “Well, I suppose that’s one reason. I’m Jaskier, by the way.” Geralt looked over at Jaskier, annoyance fighting with- well with nothing, he was just annoyed. “Charmed, I’m not interested.” And with that, he rose, took another swig, and left. The consort though, oh he was persistent. 

“A tough nut to crack, eh? Say, why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go get my lute!” Geralt, annoyed though he was, saw the opportunity. “Fuck off bard.” Then, the white haired man left. Jaskier wouldn’t stop though, and with each passing second, it became harder and harder not to punch him. “Well, if you just gave me a chance, I could show you my many talents!” That made Geralt snap. He turned, slamming his forearm into the shorter man’s chest and shoving him into the wall. “Leave. Me. Alone.” They locked eyes for a minute, then Geralt dropped him and walked off. “Smart. Take it slow.” The bard said in a weak voice, rubbing his collarbone. The white haired man continued away, mind angry. Why couldn’t people just leave him alone? Sure, he’d come to court, but that had been so he could make a name for himself, claim a plot of land, and settle. He wanted none of this. It didn’t matter. He could just go back to his quarters, and- was that yelling? 

Geralt turned back around, and the sounds became more distinct. And it sounded like-  _ fuck me, that’s Jaskier!  _ Without thinking, he sprinted back to where he’d left the bard. Rounding the corner, he found Jaskier pinned against the wall, struggling against four opponents. One had a knife to his throat, another a bag, and a third several spans of rope. The fourth had his sword drawn, standing watch, but he was looking in the wrong direction, and Geralt grabbed a vase, bringing it down on his opponent’s head. It broke, and he fell. It took a second to pick up his sword, and he turned on the next foe, who had discarded the rope and drawn his club. The white haired knight didn’t give him time to use it, and rather whipped in, using the tip of the sword and cutting his throat. He spun, ducking as the third tried to use his axe on Geralt, only to blink in surprise as he cut off his hand, pain not registering as the taller man drove his knife into his eye. However, the last man kept his dagger to Jaskier’s throat, and snarled through chipped and crooked teeth. “Drop it. Drop it now, or I cut prettyboy’s throat.” Geralt looked over at Jask, who’s wild, frenzied eyes locked with his. He nodded, imperceptibly, and the white haired man raised an eyebrow. The bard gave a more insistent look, and then Geralt threw the sword clean into the fourth man’s head. 

He collapsed bonelessly, and Jaskier cried out with relief. Geralt wen over to him, checked that he wasn’t seriously hurt, then patted the bard on the back. “Go back to the party, lordling, otherwise some other lord with a brain will kill you, and in a much cleaner way than whoever tried this did.” And before Jask could protest, Geralt left, not even looking back. 

He wandered the halls for a while, mind empty, but anger dragged him around like a dog on a leash. Why did he go back? If the situation was reversed, would the bard come back for him? Probably not, right? Regardless, he rounded the corner and-  _ what the hell?  _

He was not, in fact, in the hallway to his chamber, but rather out in the cold, dark yard. He shivered.  _ How in god’s name does anyone get anywhere in this architectural hell?  _ But Geralt wasn’t alone. A girl was there, wielding a sword and attacking a dummy. She was good, but her timing was off. Despite himself, Geralt called out. “You’re not moving as quickly as you should.” The girl looked over, panting. “What?” Geralt gritted his teeth, trying to stop himself from engaging, load of good that did him. “You aren’t moving fast enough. Here, let me show you.” The hell was he doing? But, Geralt grabbed a sword, testing the weight and grip with a few practice swings. He then turned back to her. “Now, come at me.” She looked concerned, but gave him a halfhearted strike. Geralt burst into motion, batting the sword aside, and resting his blade at her throat. “See? Not quick enough.” She quirked an eyebrow, and he reset. Then, they both took different positions. She went into viper stance, he took the classic colossus. Sword held vertically in front of him. They stared at each other for a solid half minute. Then, the girl moved. 

Geralt barely had time to register the flash of pale white hair, and she was pressing him. He blocked the blade, but she kept the heat up, pirouetting into a diagonal slash, to which he shifted his weight, catching the blade before striking forwards, only to find her not there, having moved to his left and coming at him with a basic horizontal slash. He caught it with his blade, then pressed, a vertical chop followed by a half pirouette that morphed into a left to right diagonal slash. She guided the blade aside, tip snaking in, which he managed to whack aside, then land his own blade at her throat. It was only then that he felt the cold press of steel on his side, and noticed the girl’s sword pressed to his torso. “What was that about timing?” She asked. They locked eyes. Then, Geralt gave a dry chuckle.


End file.
